


Delirious

by illwick



Series: Unwind [26]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Body Worship, Bottom!Sherlock, Breathplay, Crossdressing, Dom!John, Established Relationship, Light BDSM, Lingerie, M/M, Oral Sex, Rimming, Rough Sex, Safe Sane and Consensual, sub!Sherlock, top!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-12
Updated: 2019-04-18
Packaged: 2020-01-12 01:55:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18436628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illwick/pseuds/illwick
Summary: Still crazy after all these years.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A return to form.

John wakes to the smell of freshly-brewed coffee, and for a moment he thinks he must still be dreaming. Because in the entirety of the time he’s known Sherlock, he’s fairly certain that not once had Sherlock put on a pot of coffee of his own volition. So John simply sighs, pulls the duvet up to his chin, and nuzzles into his pillow, content to continue his lie-in.

But the smell is soon followed by the clatter of dishware, and John startles to full wakefulness. Was it possible Sherlock was cooking _breakfast?_ In the past he’d been known to make vague, half-hearted attempts at throwing together dry toast and burnt scrambled eggs (he generally forgot to either butter the pan or add the seasoning, making the results lackluster at best), but John could count those occasions on the fingers of one hand, and all had been under duress. So why in God’s name would Sherlock be up _cooking_ at this hour?

He blinks his eyes open and stares at the ceiling, wracking his brain for a potential cause. Then suddenly the events of the night before come rushing back to him, and he groans and pulls the pillow over his face, mortification rapidly replacing bewilderment. He can’t believe he and Sherlock have become one of _those_ couples.

In recent weeks, Rosie had been going through a rather severe bout of sleep regression, brought on by what appeared to be nightmares. Three or four times a night she’d awaken, screaming and sobbing, and either John or Sherlock would bolt up the stairs to comfort her. But it seemed they’d barely get her back to sleep and return to bed themselves when the cycle would repeat all over again.

Sherlock and been the first to break and bring her downstairs to their bed.

“Sherlock! You _know_ we’re trying to avoid co-sleeping with her!” John had been vaguely incensed as Sherlock lowered Rosie’s trembling form between them into the bed.

“I know, John, but seriously, this is the third time she’s been up tonight. My thighs are so sore from climbing up and down the stairs I’m getting sympathetic looks from Mrs. Hudson every time I try to sit down. I suspect she thinks you’ve been rather indelicate with me lately.”

John groaned, but he couldn’t bring himself to protest further; he was so exhausted from being awakened multiple times each night, all he’d wanted was some uninterrupted sleep. And having Rosie in their bed had allowed him exactly that.

Unfortunately, every cautionary tale they’d ever heard about co-sleeping had turned out to be devastatingly true. The next night Rosie had _refused_ to go back to sleep in her own bed following her first nightmare, and John had engaged her in a battle of wills for a full 102 minutes before finally capitulating and bringing her back downstairs, where she slept happily between them until morning. And the process had proceeded to repeat itself for nearly five weeks straight.

The morning after the thirty-fourth night in a row, John had emerged from the shower to find a rather salty-looking Sherlock composing something uncharacteristically violent-sounding on his violin while Rosie played happily with her building blocks at the table.

“Sherlock? You alright?”

Sherlock unleashed an escalating run of minor-key double-stops before returning his instrument to its case with an exasperated flourish and stalking off to the kitchen. John followed him.

“Sherlock? Talk to me, please.” It didn’t _seem_ like a Dark Mood, but Sherlock hadn’t had one in a while, and John was understandably concerned that he was due for one.

“This has to stop.” Sherlock’s voice was low as he opened the fridge, rooted around inside of it, then slammed it and deposited himself into one of the kitchen chairs, crossing his arms and pulling his face into a pout.

“What does, love?” John pulled out the chair across from him and lowered himself into it, honestly concerned. Sherlock seemed incredibly out of sorts, and John had no idea what brought it on.

“The co-sleeping. It has to stop.”

John sighed and buried his face in his hands, rubbing his eyes in exasperation. “Christ, I know. I know we shouldn’t have started. We were both just so… _tired,_ you know? But now that we started, I have no idea how to break the cycle. She won’t even go down in her own bed anymore. I honestly think she just sits there for an hour and then screams for us.”

Sherlock raked his fingers through is unruly hair, ruffling it in exasperation. “I know. But we were weak and undisciplined. Tonight, let’s hold firm.”

John met his eyes and gave a resolute nod. “Agreed. Tonight, we hold the line.”

16 hours later, their vow had been revealed to be utterly laughable. Rosie had sobbed, wailed, screamed and cried for no fewer than four hours after John had deposited her in her bed and made his way back downstairs, to the point that even Mrs. Hudson had come up to see what all the racket was about.

“I appreciate what you’re trying to do here, dears, but I have a meeting with my Bridge Club bright and early tomorrow, and I haven’t been able to sleep a wink!”

“Can’t you just take one of your herbal soothers?” John’s helpful suggestion was drowned out by a particularly ear-splitting shriek echoing down the stairwell.

“Sorry?” Mrs. Hudson cupped her hand to her ear.

“I said, _can’t you just take an herbal soother?”_

“For heaven’s sake, John, they’re to help with my _hip pain,_ not insomnia. Besides, I’ve already had three. Now please, do _something,_ I need my rest!”

And so once again, they’d capitulated.

The next day, John had asked around among some of the other parents at the park with whom he’d become informally acquainted just how they’d broken co-sleeping cycles. That night, he’d arrived home with a plan.

“We need to ask my _mother_ to help?” Sherlock had wrinkled his nose in obvious distaste.

“Look, you won’t have to ask for a thing. I’ll reach out to her and take full responsibility. But apparently the collective wisdom is that we need to change Rosie’s routine enough to catch her off-guard and break the habit. I happen to think a few days with your parents will do just that.”

And so John had helped himself to a rather large slice of humble pie and reached out to Sherlock’s mother. She’d been predictably delighted to help out (if not a bit smug at being asked), and they’d made arrangements for Rosie to spend six full days out at the country house with her grandparents. And he and Sherlock started a countdown to when they’d finally get some privacy once more.

So Friday morning, John and Sherlock had kissed Rosie farewell as she’d accompanied her grandmother out the door with barely a wave in their direction (she absolutely adored Sherlock’s parents, presumably because they spoiled her completely rotten; John tried not to take her ambivalence towards her impending separation from him personally). And then he and Sherlock were finally, truly alone for the first time in five weeks.

It took all of their willpower not to simply claw one another’s clothes off and retreat to the bedroom for some much-needed release, but alas, John had work at the surgery and Sherlock was currently consulting on a case with Greg’s team at the Yard, so there wasn’t even time for a mutual wank. Instead, they’d shared a kiss imbibed with meaning, then proceeded to spend the day exchanging a series of texts so laden with innuendo that John had needed to excuse himself to the loo on no fewer than three separate occasions to splash some cold water on his face. The minutes ticked by at an agonising pace, and John found himself bouncing on his heels in giddy anticipation on the Tube ride home. He’d spent all day brainstorming what they could do tonight depending on Sherlock’s mood, and each scenario played out in his mind in vibrant technicolour as he imagined the possibilities.

If Sherlock were acting sultry and romantic, John would take him out to Angelo’s. He’d hold Sherlock’s hand and run his foot seductively up and down Sherlock’s calf under the table as they locked eyes in the flickering candlelight. Then they’d get handsy in the cab on the ride home, then John would guide Sherlock upstairs to the bedroom and make love to him for hours, until Sherlock was a soft, sated puddle of contentment.

Now, if Sherlock were acting flirtatious and coy, that would call for something different entirely. John would place an order for delivery, he’d announce the estimated time of arrival, then he and Sherlock would scamper down the hall shedding their clothes along the way and retreat into the shower for a quickie before the delivery man showed up. Afterwards, wrapped in their dressing gowns and glowing in post-coital bliss, they’d curl up on the sofa to consume their meals and watch some crap telly before retreating to the bedroom for a second round.

And then there was the third option, the one that made John’s skin feel hot and tight all over, that made his scalp prickle and his mouth dry up and his heart beat irrationally quickly. 

There was the possibility that he’d arrive home to find Sherlock acting aloof and disinterested. If that were the case, they’d need to _unwind._

John would order Sherlock to strip and make him get on his knees in the middle of the sitting room floor. Then he’d fuck his face and pull his hair until Sherlock’s eyes watered and he made those lovely little choking sounds that made John come so hard he’d black out. Then he’d order Sherlock to go prep himself in the shower while he made some preparations of his own.

Then Sherlock would come into the bedroom, all pink and soft and _perfect,_ and John would handcuff him to the headboard and fuck him with the vibrator until he came twice--no, no _three times,_ but maybe first John would put his plug in him and spank him a bit while Sherlock begged him for more, yes, _yes,_ that would be lovely, and _then_ he’d tie him up and fuck him with the vibrator until he was so spent he was crying, and then John would climb on top of him and brutally impale him and Sherlock would scream and beg and moan, but John wouldn’t stop until he’d left a thick load of come inside him.

Then John would leave Sherlock filthy and debauched, cuffed to the bed, while he ordered some food for them. And when the delivery man arrived, John would smirk to himself, knowing that only a few feet away, Sherlock was tied up and helpless and so wanton and _used,_ just waiting for John to come back and take him.

So then John would leave the food in the kitchen and go back to the bedroom and fuck Sherlock again. This time he’d flip him over face-down and drill him into the mattress, with Sherlock’s legs splayed out to the sides, toes curling from the overstimulation. His hole would be wet and messy from their previous round, and John would run his fingers through the slick that would gather where he was working his turgid member in and out of Sherlock’s tight channel. Sherlock would wail and moan and struggle but ultimately submit--- maybe, maybe John would wrap his arm around his neck and put him in a chokehold, cut off his breathing a bit, _fuck, yeah,_ that would be lovely, _that_ would make Sherlock behave, and then John would come inside him again and Sherlock would wriggle and moan and sob at the sensation of being filled. 

Then John would turn him over and jerk him off roughly, using only his leaking come as lube, and oh _fuck_ that would be a pretty picture, and Sherlock might-- he might cry some more, _yeah,_ and then he’d come hot and thick all over himself while John stroked his hair and praised him.

And then once his tears subsided, John would wipe down his face and body with a warm, wet flannel. He’d remove the handcuffs and massage his wrists, and Sherlock would get that gorgeous, dopey, gooey look on his face and he’d gaze up at John like he’s the most wonderful thing on earth.

Then John would bring Sherlock his dinner and feed it to him in bed, kissing him between bites, doting on him unashamedly, and Sherlock would let him, and he’d love it, and afterwards they’d fall asleep together, breathing each other in.

So yeah, any those options would be fine. John was prepared. Any of the three. It was all fine. He didn’t have a preference. Not really.

He’d just disembarked at his stop when his mobile pinged.

SH  
<18:18> I’ll be late

JW  
<18:18> You’ve got to be kidding me. How late?

SH  
<18:19> Not sure. Lestrade’s running the whole team ragged, present company included.

JW  
<18:19> for fucks sake

SH  
<18:19> Would you like me to tell him that I need to be excused immediately because you haven’t sodomised me in a month and a half and it’s crucial that we rectify the situation? You know I will.

JW  
<18:21> Please don’t. Just get that gorgeous arse of yours home as soon as possible so that I can have my way with it before I lose my damn mind. 

SH  
<18:22> As you wish.  
<18:23> Captain ;)

John felt suddenly rather hot all over. Christ, when Sherlock got frisky like this, the sex was pure _magic_ every time.

Five hours later, however, the spell had worn perilously thin. John had given up on dinner plans at around eight and ordered mediocre carry-out for himself and tucked an extra meal away in the fridge for Sherlock, just in case he deigned to eat anything when he finally arrived home. He’d attempted to distract himself watching a bland crime procedural on the telly, but his mind kept slipping off into fantasies involving what Sherlock would do if he were in the lead detective’s place, and that just got John even more hot and bothered, to the point he actually contemplated wanking.

But no, that would be stupid-- he’d need his stamina to satisfy Sherlock thoroughly as soon as he got home.

_If_ he ever got home.

The sound of Sherlock’s footsteps echoed up the stairwell at precisely twelve after midnight. John had been dozing on and off, and he turned muzzily towards the front door to the flat as it swung open.

“Hey, you.”

“Hello, John.” Sherlock strode into the room and deposited his Belstaff haphazardly across the arm of the sofa before disappearing into the kitchen. John could hear the refrigerator open, followed by a pleased hum.

“There’s curry!” Sherlock sounded simultaneously mystified and thrilled. John did his best not to sigh in exasperation; the fact that Sherlock still operated under the misguided impression that food “just sort of _appeared”_ around the flat was endearing on John’s good days, but rather aggravating during the times when John was in need of a bit of affirmation.

“Uh, yeah, I thought you might be-- Christ, Sherlock, you smell like a damn ashtray.”

“Sorry,” Sherlock muttered around a mouthful of curry as he collapsed onto the sofa next to John. “Long day. Lestrade had me cross-referencing phone records from 1992. Honestly, the fact that I’m currently the only person in the entire department with a photographic memory is a disgrace. Anyway, you know nicotine helps when I’m working with numbers.”

John pinched the bridge of his nose and discretely sidled away from Sherlock, who smelled so strongly of smoke and stale coffee John could practically taste the grit on his own teeth. “Right. But you’re eating, so… case closed?”

Sherlock grinned. “Case closed. Don’t worry, it was only a Three. You weren’t missed.”

John gave him a lighthearted thwack on the shoulder with the Union Jack pillow. “Thanks a lot.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Apologies John, what I _meant_ to say is that the lack of your invaluable contributions to the team left us at a severe disadvantage. What this 26-year-old embezzlement case really needed was a good, solid medical opinion.”

“Oh, sod off, you.” John hit him with the pillow again, but they were both laughing that time, and John could feel himself softening with affection. 

They lapsed into a comfortable silence punctuated only by the soft drone of the television as Sherlock finished off his curry. Then he deposited the empty carton onto the coffee table and sank back into the cushions with a contented sigh, his eyes fluttering shut.

John blinked. That wasn’t how this evening was supposed to go. They were supposed to… have some _quality time._ But Christ, looking at Sherlock carefully, John could see the deep purple circles under his eyes. Neither of them had been sleeping well, of course he knew that, but he hadn’t noticed just what a toll it was taking on Sherlock until now.

But no matter. The two of them were nothing if not resilient. 

He reached up and touched Sherlock’s shoulder gently. “Do you maybe want to… go take a quick shower, wash the stink of the Yard off of you? I’ll open some wine.”

Sherlock’s eyes flicked open and his head lolled to the side to meet John’s gaze. “Mmm. Wine sounds good.” With a heavy sigh, he hoisted himself to his feet.

“And brush your damn teeth. It’s back to the patches tomorrow!” John called down the hall after him, and proceeded to ignore the rather rude hand gesture Sherlock threw over his shoulder as he disappeared into the bathroom.

Twenty minutes later they were both settled into their respective chairs, splitting a bottle of 2000 Saint-Emilion that had showed up on their doorstep in an unlabeled black bag a few weeks prior following the officiation of their civil partnership (“Sherlock, should we really accept gifts in unmarked bags considering our track record with these sorts of things?” “Please, John, it practically screams _Mycroft._ And of course he’s too cheap to send a bottle of his precious 2001”). Sherlock was in surprisingly good spirits, and the light of the flames in the fireplace dancing across his cheekbones had John feeling heady and mesmerised in a way that had nothing to do with the wine. 

They discussed the case and Rosie’s sleep habits and Mrs. H’s new vacuum and John’s reconciliation with Harry and all the dozens of other trivial things that had slipped by the wayside the past few weeks as they’d drowned in obligation. John felt loose, relaxed, completely at ease, and then suddenly, utterly bone-tired.

He doesn’t remember falling asleep in his chair. All he remembers is Sherlock shaking him awake at some ungodly hour, the logs in the fireplace reduced to embers, and guiding him to bed, where he’d collapsed back into a deep, satisfying slumber.

He’d fallen asleep.

He’d bloody _fallen asleep._

On the night he’d wanted to do nothing more than rekindle their relationship by ravaging Sherlock stupid, John Watson had proceeded to _fall asleep._

Christ, how absolutely _mortifying._

John manages to pry the pillow off his face and sit up, rolling out his neck with a grimace. Then he swings his legs off the side of the bed, stands with a stretch, and pulls on his dressing gown before padding down the hallway to see what in God’s name Sherlock is doing in the kitchen.


	2. Chapter 2

The smell of coffee grows stronger as he makes his way down the hallway, piquing his interest. It certainly _seemed_ that Sherlock had taken the initiative for once, but that was incredibly unlike him; usually if Sherlock was denied sex after the promise of it, he was irredeemably terse and grumpy until the situation was rectified. Why on earth he’d be up making John _coffee_ was beyond him completely.

John takes one step into the kitchen and stops cold, the air suddenly punched from his lungs.

Sherlock is standing with his back to him facing the stove, his hip jutted out in a stance of casual nonchalance. He’s stirring something in a bowl while next to him, the coffee percolates in its pot.

But it’s not what Sherlock is _doing_ that stops John cold.

It’s what he’s _wearing._

Hanging off his slim shoulders is the familiar grey cotton of John’s ARMY t-shirt. It’s not the first time he’s worn it; John remembers that all too well (it was ages ago, long before they’d confirmed anything about their relationship publically. They’d been awoken by a banging on the front door at three in the morning, and Sherlock had thrown on the closest piece of clothing at hand and dashed out of the bedroom to answer it. Much to John’s chagrin, it had been Greg, who very politely said nothing about Sherlock’s apparel but would have to have been blind not to notice it).

Sherlock’s worn it a few times since then. John’s not sure whether he simply likes the texture (Sherlock was incredibly particular about the texture of his clothing, and John suspects the feathery softness of the faded shirt must be undeniably appealing to him), or if perhaps he’d noticed the way John’s pupils dilated and his pulse accelerated whenever Sherlock donned that particular item. Something about the way the item fit Sherlock so _differently_ from John turned John on in a way he’s never been able to pinpoint: the way the stretched neckline drapes so elegantly across Sherlock’s protruding clavicles, the way the chest (which had always been tight on John, stretched by his muscular pecs over the years) hangs loosely over Sherlock’s own, the way the hem barely skates over Sherlock’s lean waist due to their difference in height. It reminds John of just how _different_ Sherlock’s body is from his own; how despite their common gender, being with Sherlock is still so foreign and beautiful and consuming, John can never really describe it.

So yes. Sherlock’s wearing John’s ARMY t-shirt.

And he’s so distracted by it that it takes his eyes a moment to wander further south, whereupon he immediately has to grasp the edge of the kitchen table to keep from keeling over of what he suspects might be a heart attack.

Because paired with the ARMY t-shirt, Sherlock has donned his light blue panties.

They’re nothing fancy, in the scheme of things. A while back, after John and Sherlock had had their negotiation about Sherlock’s occasional desire to wear feminine clothes in sexual situations, John had bought the panties for him as a gift.

He hadn’t sought them out, not by a long shot. He’d been walking home one evening after a few pints with Stamford at the Allsop Arms when a mannequin in a store window caught his attention out of the corner of his eye, and he’d ground to an abrupt halt. He wasn’t quite sure what it was about the panties that grabbed him initially, but upon closer inspection, they just seemed somehow so… _Sherlock._

They were a light blue (well, he’s fairly certain he heard Sherlock categorise them as _periwinkle,_ but tomato, tomahto…), a simple cotton that provided full coverage in front and back; nothing particularly salacious about that. The hems at the legs were free from frills, but the waistline did boast a thin band of geometric lace that made John’s throat feel rather dry upon closer inspection. While he didn’t know much about Sherlock’s taste in women’s clothing, he _had_ discerned that none of the pieces Sherlock owned featured florals; any lace or adornment was strictly geometric, and John found himself irreversibly drawn to the strip of delicate loops and whorls on this particular garment.

So emboldened by brazen desire (and perhaps the pints of lager he’d shared with Mike), he’d strode into the store, purchased them, and presented them to Sherlock upon arriving home without fanfare. Sherlock’s cheeks had flushed and his eyes grew bright and he’d greeted John the very next night splayed out on the sofa, wearing nothing but the panties. And Christ, it had been glorious.

They’d made a few reappearances since then, but certainly not in the past few months. And now, watching Sherlock’s hips shift absently to the other side as he continues to stir whatever he’s got in the bowl on the counter, John finds himself wondering _why the hell not._

“Oh my God, _Sherlock.”_ John’s still gripping the edge of the table, willing himself to remain upright in the presence of such a vision.

Sherlock shoots him an unperturbed glance over his shoulder. “Oh. Hello, John.”

John swallows hard and forces himself to take a deep breath. He can’t _think_ his blood has rushed south so quickly; he’s staring unabashedly at where the pale cheeks of Sherlock’s _exquisite_ arse are peeking coyly out from beneath the hemline of the panties.

“What… um, what are you doing?”

Sherlock doesn’t turn around again. He just cocks his hip further out to the side (exposing _just_ a bit more of the pale flesh of his bum) and cracks his neck before replying, “I’d’ve thought that was _fairly_ obvious: I’m making breakfast.”

John lets out a low chuckle. “No, no you’re not. You’re not making bloody _breakfast._ Do I _look_ like an imbecile?”

“John, it’s nearly impossible to deduce a person’s IQ based on appearance alone. Usually three or four sentences are required to make an accurate assessment.”

John fights the urge to laugh; leave it to Sherlock to take the piss out of him mid-seduction. Christ, he loves this man.

“What I _mean_ is, in case you haven’t noticed, we’ve recently had to move your laboratory downstairs due to your pesky habit of leaving experiments unattended and nearly blowing up the damn kitchen. You expect me to believe that you’re about to _turn on the stove_ and _devote your undivided attention_ to something as mundane as _breakfast?”_

Sherlock turns around, batter-drenched spoon in hand, and gives a casual shrug as he leans back against the counter. “I’m quite ravenous, John, I’ll of course give breakfast my undivided attention. Unless something comes up that might distract me.” He bites his lip seductively, and John’s eyes flick to his groin, where he notes Sherlock is sporting a prominent erection.

_Gotcha._

John nearly knocks over one of the kitchen chairs in his haste to get his hands on Sherlock’s body. In three brisk strides he has Sherlock pinned against the counter, sinking his teeth resolutely into the pale column of his neck as his hands come to rest on Sherlock’s hips, locking him into place and kicking Sherlock’s bare feet apart to make room for himself between them.

Sherlock makes absolutely no effort whatsoever to keep up the pretense of being interested in cooking. John hears the distant clatter of the spoon dropping to the floor, and the next thing he knows, Sherlock’s hoisted himself up to sit on the counter, wrapping his gorgeous, toned legs firmly around John’s waist, pulling him close so that their groins are flush with one another.

“Ohhhhh, Christ…” John burrows his face into the crook of Sherlock’s neck and proceeds to suck another hickey into his skin as he begins to frot his throbbing length against Sherlock’s. Sherlock moans lavishly and drapes his arms around John’s neck, holding him close, then tips his head back to allow John unfettered access to his throat.

John hasn’t had a decent chance to mark Sherlock up like this in ages. When Sherlock’s on a case or freelancing at a local lab, John’s always careful to keep any marks below the neckline of his shirt (or, worst-case, somewhere at least his scarf would cover the worst of it), but today, John lets himself go. He bites and sucks at the tender flesh of Sherlock’s neck with reckless abandon, pulling back every so often to admire how debauched Sherlock looks with his eyes fluttered shut and his head tipped back to loll helplessly against the cabinets. Somewhere in the fray the ARMY t-shirt had gotten a bit twisted and the neckline was now pulled perilously close to Sherlock’s shoulder, exposing the prominent line of his clavicle, and John hungrily leans back in to feast on the remainder of the exposed skin.

He could have carried on like that forever, were it not for their unfortunate height difference. As it turns out, John was just _slightly_ too short for their cocks to align properly with Sherlock seated on the counter, meaning that Sherlock was soon rutting frantically against John’s abdomen as John strained on his tiptoes to try and keep his own erection from rubbing painfully against the edge of the counter. It didn’t feel _bad,_ per se, but it could be better. Oh God, it could be _so much better._

John takes a half step back to put some distance between them, ignoring the indignant whine that escapes from Sherlock as his eyes snap open to see just where John was going. John simply gives him a devilish grin, then reaches between them to palm Sherlock’s throbbing member through the soft cotton of his panties.

“Hmm, let’s see what we have here, shall we?” He keeps his voice to a predatory growl, just the way he knows turns Sherlock on.

“Jesus, John…” John’s secretly thrilled to hear that Sherlock sounds as desperate as he’s feeling himself.

Sherlock tightens his grip around John’s neck and leans forward to rest their foreheads together As their breath intermingles, they look down to where Sherlock’s hardened length is straining valiantly against the material enveloping it. John strokes him more firmly and Sherlock lets out a helpless whimper as a small wet spot forms at the tip, turning the fabric at the head of his cock dark blue.

“Oh, God, that’s it, love… Christ, these panties look so goddamn pretty on you, love the way your cock looks when you wear such pretty things--” His words are swallowed whole as Sherlock dips his head to capture John’s lips with his own, and they exchange a series of heated, frantic kisses as John continues to jerk Sherlock through the thin fabric of his knickers.

All too soon Sherlock utters a bitten-off cry into John’s mouth, and John’s forced to cease his ministrations, abruptly realising that Sherlock is rapidly approaching release. It’s with a distinct sense of reluctance that he relinquishes his grip on Sherlock’s cock and instead lets his hand wander further south to cup and fondle his balls. He’s gentle now, barely teasing Sherlock’s sac with a few light tugs as he issues a series of soft kisses along his cheekbones. Before him, Sherlock spreads his legs wider, wanton and desperate, and arches his back seductively.

“Mmm, yeah, that’s it, love. You like how this feels, hmm?”

Sherlock peers coquettishly up at John from beneath his criminally long lashes. “Yes, John.” His voice sounds raw and thick, and they share a smile as John stares down at him appraisingly. 

He continues to casually toy with Sherlock’s balls as he leans forward and begins to kiss his way down Sherlock’s neck, down his sternum, down the feather-soft ink of the R in ARMY, then further down still, until he’s able to mouth gently at Sherlock’s cotton-clad cock.

“NNNgh, Jesus, John, _careful…”_ John grins to himself as he notes Sherlock’s thighs are trembling with the effort of holding back, but seconds later Sherlock is threading his fingers through John’s hair to hold his mouth in place; he must not be _too_ close, then, or he’d pull John away.

Ever so cautiously, he proceeds to suck and lave at Sherlock’s twitching erection, wetting the fabric of the panties gradually with his efforts as his left hand continues to massage Sherlock’s tightening sac. Sherlock just moans and grips his hair harder, surrendering completely to John’s advances.

John forces himself to pull away for one breathless moment to peer up at Sherlock, his gaze commanding and voice as authoritative as he can muster. “You know what I’d love to see, Sherlock?”

“Hmm?” Sherlock’s eyes are glazed and his curls are rumpled and his neck is blooming with blossoming bruises.

“How about you lift up this pesky little shirt,” he gives the hem of the ARMY shirt a teasing tug, “and let me watch while you play with your tits?”

“Oh--oh--okay…” Sherlock’s entire body seems to be quivering with want, and without hesitation, he lifts up the shirt to expose his streamlined torso and creamy pecs, and John’s heart leaps into his throat. The vision of Sherlock exposing himself so willingly sends a deep throb straight to his cock, and his arousal doesn’t recede as Sherlock brings his own fingertips to his lips, wets them, and then reaches down to pinch and pluck his nipples.

“Fuck, _yes,_ that’s beautiful. Does it feel good when you touch yourself like that, gorgeous?”

“Y-y-yes, John…” Sherlock’s eyes are already rolling back in his head, and he’s leaning heavily against the cabinets as he arches into his own touch, exposing his pleasure for John to view.

“Keep touching yourself, love, don’t stop…” And with that, John lowers his head and resumes licking and sucking at the moist fabric encasing Sherlock’s throbbing hardness.

For a long time, he just watches. He gazes up and takes in the magnificent tableau of Sherlock pleasuring himself, the way his nimble fingers look as they tease and toy with the tender buds on his chest, observing the way the ripples of pleasure radiate from Sherlock’s nipples to his abdomen and then down to his cock, which John enthusiastically continues to mouth and suckle. Sherlock seems lost to the world, mouth agape, legs still spread wide, whimpering helplessly each time he gives his nipples a particularly intense pinch with his fingernails. He’s gorgeous, so fucking gorgeous, John could watch him like this _forever._

But no, that’s not what Sherlock wants. That’s not what _he_ wants. John knows _exactly_ what they need.

With a deep sigh, John delicately removes his mouth from Sherlock’s cock and rises back up to his full height, meeting Sherlock’s heated gaze as he does so.

“Hi there, beautiful.”

Sherlock’s gaze narrows appraisingly as he removes his fingertips from his nipples, t-shirt falling effortlessly back into place. “Hi, John.”

“You’re looking so gorgeous in these panties, love, you know that?” He reaches down and strokes his thumbs across the hemline.

“You may have mentioned it once or twice.” The quip is completely at odds with Sherlock’s current state of debauchment, and John can’t help but laugh.

“Well, if it’s alright with you, I’d like to take in the view from the back as well, if you’d be so amenable.”

Sherlock purses his lips, pretending to ponder the proposition. “Well, I suppose. If you simply must.”

“I simply must. Come here, you.” He offers up a hand and steps back to help Sherlock gingerly dismount the counter, his legs wobbly as his feet come back into content with the floor. Despite himself, John giggles.

Sherlock throws him a dirty look. “Stop laughing, you’ve incapacitated me entirely. If you’re not careful, my legs will give out completely and we’ll have to call the whole thing off.”

John pulls him in for a fierce kiss. “Sod that, you think your legs not working would deter me? At this point I’d simply have to have my way with you right here on the floor. Might not be graceful, but I don’t think I can wait much longer.” He gives Sherlock a sly wink, and Sherlock blushes despite himself as John aligns their cocks and thrusts suggestively against him.

“Well then you’d best hurry things along, John. As romantic as a tryst on the kitchen floor sounds, I have a feeling neither of our knees would appreciate the endeavor.”

“Fair point.” And with that, John unceremoniously spins Sherlock around, grabs him by the wrists, and plants both of his hands firmly on the edge of the kitchen counter. “Hands stay here, yeah? You can make as much noise as you want, but I don’t want you to move from this position.”

For a split second, he’s nervous; they’re not having an outright power exchange at the moment, and he doesn’t want to push Sherlock any further in that direction than he wants to go this morning. That said, John is _craving_ more obedience from Sherlock, a chance for John to really take control of the encounter, and he holds his breath as he waits to see if Sherlock is amenable.

Sherlock doesn’t hesitate. “Yes, John.” And with that, he arches his back, spreads his legs, and presents his magnificent, periwinkle-clad arse for John’s perusal.

John fights the urge to stare down at it, dumbstruck, and let his brain go offline entirely. Sherlock’s arse has always been incredible, and in moments like this, John’s blown away by the fact that Sherlock is _willing to show it off for him._ Back in the early days of their acquaintanceship (friendship? courtship?) John had found Sherlock’s arse a _constant_ source of distraction, but he thought he’d done a pretty good job hiding it for the most part (years later, of course, Sherlock had informed him he was utterly mistaken). Yet at the time, John couldn’t even begin to identify the _source_ of his attraction, let alone allow himself to fantasize about actually _indulging_ it.

And yet somehow, against all odds, here they are: Sherlock in nothing but a thin t-shirt and a pair of gorgeous, delicate panties, bent over the kitchen counter to allow John to ogle his arse to his heart’s content.

It’s fucking _phenomenal._

But John doesn’t allow himself to get carried away just yet. Instead, he issues a brisk _“Stay”_ before popping into the sitting room to grab a cushion. Then he returns to the kitchen, places the cushion at Sherlock’s heels, and lowers himself onto his knees until he’s eye-level with Sherlock’s buttocks. He’s learned over the years that his knees start to ache _long_ before he’s finished indulging in everything this view has to offer. The cushion, he’s discovered, at least helps take the edge off.

He starts slowly. He reaches forward and takes a firm handful of each plush cheek and simply _squeezes_ them, kneading them, as if testing them for ripeness. Sherlock issues a low hum, clearly enjoying the attention, and John licks his lips as he massages them more fully before squeezing them together and then pulling them apart. The moment he pulls them apart, Sherlock gives his pelvis a seductive little tilt, and John grins to himself; were Sherlock not wearing the panties, he’d be presenting his hole for John, and the thought makes him feel near dizzy with arousal. But as it stands, the thin layer of cotton still stands between John and that most intimate of places, and he grins to himself as he runs his thumbs briskly up Sherlock’s crack, pressing the fabric inside, offering more contour to the obscene tableau.

“Mmmmm, _John…”_ Sherlock’s voice is muffled; he seems to have buried his face in his arms and is shifting earnestly from foot to foot, clearly eager to get on with things, but John doesn’t allow himself to be rushed.

Ever so slowly, he trails his fingers along the hem of the panties, where the fabric meets the exquisite curve of Sherlock’s cheeks. Sherlock trembles and moans as John slowly pulls the fabric up, exposing just slightly more of the swell of his buttocks, creamy and soft. John can’t resist more than a moment before leaning forward to lick and nibble along the crease where Sherlock’s buttocks meet his thighs.

“Ahhh! Oh, Christ, John…” Sherlock huffs indignantly as John laps and teeths gently at the exposed skin of the two pale globes before him, forcing the fabric further up and into Sherlock’s crack with his thumbs, revealing more of his arse. “Ah… Ah… Oh, _God…”_

John pauses in his ministrations to calm himself down. There’s something he’s fantasized about doing in a situation like this, but it had always struck him as just a bit _too_ pervy to bring up in the heat of the moment, and he didn’t want to try something new without Sherlock’s explicit permiss--

“Go ahead.”

John pulls back, not fully relinquishing his grip on Sherlock’s arse but enough to be able to see where Sherlock’s burrowed his head into his arms and is resting placidly on the countertop.

“Sorry, go ahead-- with what?”

“You can… mark up my arse. With hickeys, or bites, or whatever it is you’re thinking about back there.”

“Sherlock, how could you _possibly_ have known what I was thinking abou--”

“If I promise to tell you all the sordid details of every sexual deduction I’ve ever made about you as soon as we’re done, will you please _get on with it,_ for the love of God? I’ve been wanting you to do this for ages.” He sounds so close to irritated that John’s tempted to roll his eyes, but he manages to restrain himself. The last thing he wants to do is start a row in the middle of foreplay.

“Are you--”

“If you ask me if I’m _sure,_ I swear to God I’m marching out of this kitchen, locking myself in the bedroom, and having my way with the vibrator all afternoon while you’re forced to just sit in the hallway and listen.”

“Christ, alright, Your Majesty! I’ll get right to it, then.”

He’s fairly certain he hears Sherlock utter a rather snotty _‘good’_ under his breath, but he doesn’t have time to feel annoyed. Because Sherlock’s just _given him permission to mark up his arse._

Before he can overthink it, he leans forward and sinks his teeth into one fleshy mound then seals his lips to the tender skin and _sucks. Hard._

Sherlock’s reaction is instantaneous; his entire body pulls taught, and he issues a strange, guttural wail that sounds more animal than human.

John immediately lets go and pulls back. “Sherlock, you alright? Was that too hard?”

“God, no, fuck, MORE! Jesus, John, that felt _amazing…”_

“Christ, _okay.”_ John barely gives himself a second to pause before diving back in and feasting on the pert cheeks before him.

It’s… Christ, it’s _beyond_ spectacular. John has to admit, in the past when he’s allowed himself to think about biting or sucking on Sherlock’s arse, he’d always wondered if it would feel too strange, too outside his comfort zone. But instead, it feels so goddamn _satisfying_ he’s all but drunk with it.

And somehow, miraculously, Sherlock seems to be on the same page. He’s moaning and begging and pleading for more as John nips and suckles his way across his backside, delighting in the rosy pink marks that bloom from each fresh bite. The fact that Sherlock’s arsecheeks seem to be a major erogenous zone for him is suddenly so glaringly obvious, John’s almost angry at himself for not realising this sooner; he’d always been so preoccupied with what was going on _between_ them that he’s all too often failed to give them the proper _reverence_ and _respect_ two such magnificent arsecheeks _deserve._

But no matter.

By the time John’s done feasting on the tender flesh and sits back on his heels to admire his work, he’s a bit mortified: Sherlock’s arse is a warzone of burgeoning bruises and littered with receding bite marks, flushed a bright magenta quickly deepening to a dark maroon. God, he’ll be feeling it tomorrow; he won’t be able to sit comfortably for a week! John will have to take care of him: bring him tea while he reclines on the sofa, pepper him with affection and praise when he’s forced to eat his meals standing up. The thought makes John’s cock throb in anticipation. Sherlock was being so _good,_ and it was _all for him…_

“John?” Sherlock’s voice is muffled from where his head is still buried in his arms.

“Sorry, love. Just looking at you. You’re so goddamn beautiful, so goddamn perfect. And you’re all mine, aren’t you?”

There’s a long pause, and John feels a quick pang of molten anger deep in his gut. Sherlock _was_ his, wasn’t he?

“Sherlock? I said you’re _mine,_ aren’t you?”

Sherlock heaves an exasperated sigh. “I don’t know, John. It’s been so long since you’ve properly claimed me.”

And oh God, yes. Seems they were on the same page yet again; Sherlock was _definitely_ in the mood for a bit more power play.

“Oh, sweetheart, I know. You’ve been so patient. Want me to claim you now, remind you who you belong to?”

“Yes, please.”

“And how would you suggest I go about doing that, hmm?” John’s feeling a bit cheeky, and he wants to goad Sherlock on. He _loves_ making him beg.

Sherlock mutters something unintelligible into his folded arms. _God,_ he’s adorable when he gets shy.

“Louder, please, love.”

“I need you to come in me.”

“Hmm, is that so?” John traces his fingertips lightly across Sherlock’s mottled buttocks to meet the fabric of the panties pressed between them, which he slowly begins to stroke.

“Yes. Please.” Sherlock’s voice is muffled by his folded arms, but his tone is low and desperate.

“Well, let me see what I’m working with, here.” With that, John reaches up to the waistband of the panties and pulls them down just enough that the elastic rests beneath the swell of Sherlock’s rear. He’s careful not to pull the front down; he knows Sherlock loves the feeling of having his cock encased in soft, smooth fabric, and he doesn’t want to deprive him.

“Spread your legs, sweetheart.” Sherlock complies, though he’s barely able to widen his stance by another inch or two with the constriction of the panties around his thighs, but John doesn’t mind. “Oh, lovely. Now hold still and let me take a look.”

With that, he firmly pries Sherlock’s cheeks apart to expose his hole.

How is it possible, he wonders, that after all these years, the sight of it still makes John’s cock throb and his cheeks flush and his heart skip a beat like he’s some lust-drunk teenager? How can it be that he’s had Sherlock countless times, but the sight of his opening still makes John’s mouth dry and his head light? How is it that he knows every _inch_ of Sherlock’s body as intimately as his own (and some, perhaps moreso), but it still feels new every goddamn time? How the hell did John _invade Afghanistan,_ but the act of Sherlock offering his transport to be penetrated by John is still the headiest power rush he’s had in his whole damn life?

He supposes he’ll never know. And in this moment, he doesn’t particularly care. All he knows is that he needs to be inside Sherlock _right now._

He pulls Sherlock’s cheeks a bit further apart, then he leans forward and plants an obscene kiss directly over his target, flicking his tongue resolutely inside.

He’s distantly aware that somewhere above him Sherlock is unleashing a streak of ungodly obscenities, but he’s too busy trying not to chuckle. Because as he works his tongue deeper into Sherlock’s clenching channel, he can’t help but notice that Sherlock is effortlessly, spotlessly fresh, and that his opening gives way easily to John’s ministrations. _Of COURSE he’d gotten up early to sneak in a shower before John could notice. Of COURSE he had. He’d been playing coy this entire time, but he wanted this all along, the clever tease._ The thought of Sherlock tiptoeing off to the shower in the pale light of dawn to finger himself open in anticipation of John’s enjoyment of his body makes John’s eyes flutter shut and a moan surge forth from somewhere deep inside of him. He deepens the thrusts of his tongue and begins to swirl it, prompting another howl from the man quivering helplessly against the counter.

It’s in moments like this that John is reminded of the fact that for some godforsaken reason, he’d been too shy to rim Sherlock until shortly after their reconciliation. Before then, when they were together back before the Fall, the act had seemed too… too filthy, too intimate, too… gay. As John had internally grappled to come to terms with his own sexuality, he’d wasted _months_ only worshipping Sherlock’s arse with his fingers and cock, never allowing himself to wonder what Sherlock’s body would _taste_ like from inside, what his hole would _feel_ like fluttering around his probing tongue.

And now he knows, and God, he’ll never forgive himself for not wondering sooner. As it turns out, he _adores_ rimming Sherlock: Kissing and licking him open until he’s soft and glistening and _begging_ to be ridden. It feels so cripplingly _personal_ to be close to him like this, to bury his face in the magnificent arse that turns heads from the halls of Scotland Yard to the streets of Marylebone, it’s perverted and delicious and so goddamn _perfect,_ and oh, _fuck,_ John can’t help but relinquish his hold on one of Sherlock’s cheeks to reach down and palm himself furiously through his pajama bottoms. The stimulation rockets through him and he groans lavishly against Sherlock’s skin, and moments later, Sherlock reaches behind himself to hold his cheek open so that John can plunge his tongue ever deeper inside as they lose themselves in incandescent pleasure.

For a while, John surrenders to the moment. There’s nothing in the world but the sound of their mutual gasps and moans, the feeling of Sherlock’s soft skin beneath his palms, the musk of Sherlock on his tongue. It’s all John could ever want in this mortal world.

It’s with reluctance that he pulls back and wipes his lips, then cocks his head as he inspects Sherlock’s hole. He looks open and relaxed, and John issues a brief hum of contentment before rising shakily to his feet (his legs were all pins and needles, despite his efforts to mitigate the situation with the cushion) to lean over Sherlock’s trembling body and open up the cupboard where they keep an emergency stash of lube hidden behind the olive oil.

“You doing alright, love?” Sherlock is still leaning heavily against the counter, face buried in his arms, legs spread, and he doesn’t lift his head as John reaches down with two slicked fingers to press some lube into his passage.

He simply grunts softly at the intrusion, then sighs as his muscles go lax. “Yes, John. _Fuck,_ that feels good, _God,_ you-- nngh, right there!”

“Right here?” John asks as innocently as he can while pressing directly against Sherlock’s prostate in slow, deliberate circles.

“Ah! Ah! Ahhhhhhh, ohhhhh!” Sherlock lets out a series of breathy gasps as John stimulates him, and John an tell he’s all but gone to pieces.

“Use your words, sweetheart. Does this feel good?”

“Nnnnnngh, yes, John, right-- ah! Right there, _there, oh, fuck--”_

John presses down a little harder and delights as Sherlock arches his back and turns up his arse, presenting himself like an animal in heat-- the thought makes John’s head swim.

“You want my cock, love?”

“Oh...oh, _John, yes, please…”_

“Mmm, let’s see if you’re ready for me, hmm?” As casually as he can, John withdraws his fingers, forcing himself not to be distracted by the way Sherlock rolls his hips in desperate anticipation at the sudden openness.

Instead, he lines up his cock and presses just the head inside, then begins to drag it in and out in tiny, tentative strokes, as if testing Sherlock’s body. His glans catches on Sherlock’s rim with each undulation, stretching him incrementally the way John knows drives him mad.

“Oh Christ, John, _please, oh please…”_

John keeps his rhythm steady and his strokes shallow and light, withholding everything he knows Sherlock desperately wants. “Oh, you’re very tight, love. Have you been saving yourself for me?”

“Yes, John…” Sherlock’s words sound a bit wet, and John wonders if he’s crying yet. The thought sends a shock of sensation straight to his balls.

“Is that so? Keeping your hole nice and tight, waiting for me to come and fill it?”

“Y-y-yes.” Sherlock’s response is punctuated by soft mewls.

“This is all mine, isn’t it?” John used to be self-conscious about his possessive streak, but the fact that it turns Sherlock on as much as it does him turned out to be one of the loveliest revelations of their intimate relationship. He runs his hands gently over Sherlock’s cheeks before pulling them apart even further so he can watch the tip of his cock disappearing and reappearing inside his lithe form.

“Yes, John, all yours.”

“You’ve never let anyone else touch you here, have you?” He runs his fingertips around Sherlock’s stretched rim before withdrawing his cock and pushing a bit more lube inside.

“No, John. Only you.”

“That’s right. I’m the only one who’s ever come inside your virgin arse, aren’t I?”

“Yes-- oh GOD, John, fuck, please…” Sherlock makes a desperate effort to press himself backwards and impale himself further on John’s cock, but John catches him by the hips and stills him just in time.

“Ah ah ah! You have to _behave_ if you want my come, sweetheart.”

“Johhnnnn…” It’s dangerously close to a whine, but John lets it go; Sherlock was being rather patient, all things considered, and he knows he can’t contain himself much longer anyway.

Ever so slowly, he begins to deepen his strokes, pressing slightly further inside with each languid thrust. He takes each penetration at an agonising pace, staring down at where his turgid member is disappearing between Sherlock’s pale globes in a slow, slick slide. After a seeming eternity he bottoms out, then continues to fuck into Sherlock’s channel with leisurely ease.

“Ahhhhh! Ahhhh, ohhhhh….” Sherlock’s gasps turn to light sighs, and John grins to himself as he continues to work him over.

The sounds Sherlock makes when he’s being fucked properly would surprise no one: They’re a delightful array of throaty growls and pained grunts and deep, sultry moans that are entirely in character for Sherlock’s trademark baritone voice, and John adores each and every noise Sherlock utters when he’s being taken hard and fast.

But what _would_ surprise an incidental observer, however, are the sounds Sherlock makes when he’s being made love to. Gone are the masculine groans and growls and grumbling gasps, replaced instead with shockingly high, breathy sighs and weak mewls and light cries that sound so shockingly _feminine_ it had initially taken John by surprise. But he’s discovered he loves this too, perhaps (impossibly) even more than the harsh, animalistic sounds a good fucking induces; he loves seeing this beautiful, hidden side of Sherlock, the delicate, tender overtures that grace no one’s ears but John’s. 

John’s eyes roll back in his head as Sherlock’s light cries fill the quiet air of the kitchen. Sherlock’s arse feels _incredible_ this morning: He’s hot and tight and gorgeously wet, and John can’t wait to fill him up with a long-delayed release.

“Oh-- oh God, Sherlock, yeah, yeah, that’s it.” John forces his eyes open to take in the scene before him. He hooks his thumbs into the lace band still resting on Sherlock’s hips and rubs the smooth fabric of the panties between his fingers, reminding himself that Sherlock is wearing these pretty things _just for him._

“John… God, John, please, I can’t take it anymore… please come in me, please, I need it, _fuck,_ I need it, John, please, need you, need you, _God, GOD…”_

Fuck. He always knows just what to say.

John releases his hold on the panties, grips Sherlock firmly by the hips, and proceeds to ream him as hard and fast as he can.

Sherlock shouts and bows his back, arms flying out to brace himself against the counter as John rails him brutally from behind. The muscles in his shoulders swell and flex against the onslaught, and John grins wickedly down at him before increasing the ferocity of his thrusts, pistoning into his passage impossibly faster.

“AH! AH! AHHHHH!”

God. The sounds of Sherlock Holmes having his brains fucked out ought to be fucking criminal.

John digs his nails into Sherlock’s tender flesh, locks him into place, and comes.

He spills for what feels like ages, balls tight and throbbing as weeks of pent-up frustration flow out of him in earth-shattering waves. He clutches Sherlock’s body with ferocious intensity, immobilizing him, forcing his surrender.

And Sherlock is beautifully complicit. He issues low, wet cries as John fills his arse, wriggling just enough to wring even more come out of John’s twitching prick but not enough to make John question his own dominance. Sherlock’s passage flutters beautifully with each tiny shift, and John relinquishes his grip on Sherlock’s hip to lean forward and wrap his arm around his chest before issuing another series of firm thrusts into his wilting form, pushing every last drop of his release into his body.

“Oh, God. Oh, _God…”_ John’s legs are trembling as his forehead falls to rest between Sherlock’s shoulderblades. He grinds his pelvis in slow, languid circles, intent on riding out the final throes of his erection to prolong their coupling as long as possible. Beneath him, Sherlock moans, sultry and sure.

John lowers his lips to lick and lave at Sherlock’s spine, then reaches around to take Sherlock’s panty-clad erection in his hand--

Only to find it damp and already softening.

“Nnngh. S’rock, did you come?” He can barely form the words around his clumsy tongue, swollen with bliss.

“Fuck. Yes. Sorry.”

“Mmm. No worries. Just want to make sure you get yours, love.” He presses a reassuring kiss to the back of Sherlock’s neck. If they’d been having a real power exchange he’d consider punishing him, but what had just transpired was one of those encounters that was _neither-here-nor-there_ on the scale of their power dynamics, which John has learned to appreciate by their own merits.

He manages to right himself and reluctantly withdraws his cock with a wince before pulling up his pajamas once more. Sherlock remains stationary, having no illusions about what comes next.

John reaches down to stroke lightly at his hole, one hand pulling Sherlock’s cheek away as the other explores his opening. 

“Alright if I touch you inside now, love?” John always insists upon checking Sherlock for tearing following every encounter.

“Yes, John.” Sherlock holds beautifully still as John guides his fingers inside, scissoring them a bit before withdrawing them and inspecting them for any sign of blood. There’s none; just a delicious streak of semen-- evidence of John’s claim over Sherlock’s body. John’s wilted cock gives a dim pulse in response to the sight, and he sighs contentedly.

“All good. You look gorgeous with my come leaking out of you, you know.” He keeps his tone conversational as he pulls up the waistband of the panties and gives Sherlock’s backside a light pat.

“Thank you.” John has to bite his own cheek to keep from giggling at Sherlock’s near-awkward formality in the wake of their mutual unbridled ecstasy. Sherlock raises himself up onto his elbows, gives his spine an experimental roll, then hums contentedly as pulls himself up to stand. “Well. I feel much better now.”

John grins. “Good. Glad to be of service.”

Sherlock turns around and leans casually back against the countertop, smirking as John’s eyes rake over his rumpled t-shirt and come to rest on the large damp patch blemishing the front of the panties. “So. What shall we do now?”

John pretends to be deep in thought before responding. “Well, the way I see it, today can go one of two ways.”

“And which ways are that?”

“You can go get washed up, I’ll make these pancakes, then we’ll head out to that exhibit at the Tate you’ve been going on about for the last three weeks, just like we were planning.”

Sherlock furrows his brows. “Or?”

John gives a nonchalant shrug. “Or you can leave those panties on, let me feed you up, then see how many times I can make you come in them today. We’ll get them utterly debauched, until they’re sopping wet and messy, so soaked with the come I’ve fucked out of you and the leaking come I’ve put in you that I’ll forbid you to sit on our furniture lest you run it, and you’ll have to kneel on the floor instead.”

Ten minutes later, John’s shoving a plate piled high with pancakes in front of Sherlock, who stares up at him in rapt attention.

John quirks an eyebrow at him. Sherlock doesn’t move.

John grins. “Eat up, sweetheart.”

Sherlock grins back. “Yes, _Captain.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m still taking prompts for this series! Want to see these two up to something particularly pervy? Leave it in the comments below!
> 
> Also, I’m outlining my next case-fic installment now, and wanted to crowd-source a particular plot point. Which of these characters from the “Unwind” universe do you most want to see return?  
> \--Victor Trevor  
> \--Aaron  
> \--The Woman  
> Vote in the comments!!!
> 
> And also, just… leave comments. I love comments. Kthx.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry for the tease of a chapter-- I was going to make this a one-shot, but it ran away with me and ended up being WAY too long for a single chapter. Stay tuned!


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